


must be fine

by poltergeisted



Category: Modern Family (TV)
Genre: Baking and Bonding, Mitchell-centric, Single Dad AU, ambiguous ending, basically i'm referencing 2x17, break-up, mentions of depression, this takes place in a timeline where cameron leaves and mitchell becomes a single dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25396573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poltergeisted/pseuds/poltergeisted
Summary: Time suddenly has meaning again, moving quickly and without concern for Mitchell Pritchett. In fact, Life and Time seem to be working together to catch him off guard, haphazardly dropping a baby in his lap right after subjecting him to the most painful of breakups.But Mitchell doesn’t back down; Life and Time and all the other forces of the universe can go right ahead.
Relationships: Claire Dunphy/Phil Dunphy, Gloria Delgado-Pritchett/Jay Pritchett, Mentions of Mitchell Pritchett/Cameron Tucker, Mitchell Pritchett/Cameron Tucker
Comments: 11
Kudos: 39





	must be fine

**Author's Note:**

> title is from miel's "must be fine":
> 
> _"i keep going_  
>  _thinking every day_  
>  _i'm awake_  
>  _must mean i'm okay"_

If her time as a Pritchett has taught her anything, it’s that showing weakness is a cardinal sin. Vulnerability in general is frowned upon, unless it has to do with a particularly moving movie. (Bonus points if it’s a football movie.) Normally, Claire lives by this rule, avoiding weepy displays of affection, exposing her caring side, and uplifting football movies… But this isn't normal. In fact, this is not even remotely normal. 

The abnormalities become evident when Mitchell misses his third family dinner that month. A highly unusual occurence, by his standards. Being the methodical and organized person that he is, Mitchell corresponds regularly with the family. Unlike Phil, who texts sporadically and with much enthusiasm-- or even Jay, who is barely capable of texting without a full-blown tutorial at hand --Mitchell’s texts are brief and concise, so professional in the most unprofessional of situations. 

But Mitchell neglects to send a single text explaining his absence. No calls, either. 

At first, Claire doesn't think much of it. She assumes that Mitchell’s sudden disappearance has something to do with his quickly developing relationship. 

The object of Mitchell’s affections is a man named Cameron, whose loud and intense personality seems the polar opposite of Mitchell’s own. He’s visited a few times, entertaining the family with tales of countryside mischief. Quirks and all, Cameron appears to be Mitchell’s perfect match. 

Maybe they’re on a plane to the Bahamas, feeling the sudden desire to do something unexpected, to celebrate their newly blossomed romance. It’s a nice thought to entertain: her uptight brother jumping on a plane and shipping off to an island, so swept up in the moment that he forgot to keep in touch. 

But nice things rarely last. Nice thoughts, especially. Because Claire soon realizes how unrealistic this imagined scenario is. Mitchell, who would rather step in front of a bus than miss a day at work, has dropped everything to drink a strawberry daiquiri on the beach? That makes about as much sense as Luke’s essay on Theroux. 

When in doubt, ask for Dad’s opinion. 

And that’s what Claire does, because as much as she hates to break the all encompassing “No Vulnerability” rule, the nagging of her conscience is hard to ignore. 

“Hey, Dad,” she says, casually approaching him at dinner-- the fourth dinner that Mitchell has missed. Gloria is in the kitchen, talking to Manny, and nobody else has managed to make conversation with him. Phil likely tried his hand at it, but knowing Phil and Jay’s tentative relationship, it didn't work out. Taking a sip of her wine, Claire drops into the seat beside him at the bar. 

He smells of scotch, which stirs up memories. Claire honestly can’t decide whether to associate the scent of scotch with bad memories or good, because there are just so many. The days leading up the divorce smelled of scotch, of course, because Jay had taken to drinking away the pain. But at the same time, Claire has fond memories of sitting on her Dad’s knee, watching television as the afternoon stretched on. Those days smelled of scotch, too. 

“Claire,” Jay says. There’s a small, half-amused smile on his face, probably because her ‘casual’ approach didn't quite land. 

She slumps, dropping the act. “I’m worried about Mitch.” 

“Well, don’t be,” Jay says, his advice more blunt and less eloquent than Claire had initially anticipated. For some reason, Claire was expecting something long and wise and vague, like a sermon, that would leave her contemplative but satisfied. This short, inelegant reply made Claire inexplicably angry. Suddenly, she understood why people had such a strong dislike for fortune cookies. She wanted a refund. 

Seeing the apparent confusion (and discontent) on Claire’s face, Jay decided to elaborate. “Look. When you shacked up with Phil, you had your romantic trips and rose bouquets. Now it’s Mitch’s turn, and you're probably feeling a little left out--”

“No, no,” Claire cuts in, furious that her father had essentially reduced her to a jealous little girl. “I mean, he’s not showing up for family dinners. He’s missing birthday parties. It’s just… not  _ like _ him, you know?” 

“Hey, back when you and Phil were lovebirds, you didn't show up for a lot of things,” Jay says. He shrugs, lifting a newly topped off glass of scotch to his lips. “He’ll come back around. You can count on that.” 

Claire stops herself from saying anything more. It's definitely not a sermon, but it's enough to put her anxieties to rest. At least for a while. Sighing, she takes another sip of her wine. A longer one.

“He’s a good one, Claire,” Jay says, lowering his voice. “He’ll come back around.” He places a hand on her shoulder. Firm and reassuring, the grip of a father whose wisdom can’t really be put into words. It’s a gesture that Claire genuinely appreciates. 

***

Professionalism and compulsive organization aside, Mitchell is not a complicated person. As his long-suffering sister, Claire can testify to that. 

So, when Mitchell’s radio silence persists, Claire decides to investigate. 

A week has gone by since Mitchell’s last text. This proves that something is definitely up. Not wrong, necessarily, but  _ up _ . Signs point to an impromptu vacation, or maybe, just maybe, eloping. But this goes against everything Mitchell stands for: extensive schedules, timetables, guest lists… 

Not to mention, picturing him saying  _ I do  _ in a chapel that doubles as a Vegas casino is near impossible. 

She can definitely rule out eloping. 

What else could be keeping him away? Claire mulls over this question for a good minute. 

It’s early morning, and she’s allowed herself enough time to lie in bed. The breakfast rush is far off in the horizon. Beside her, Phil is sleeping soundly, blissfully unaware that his wife has been staring at the ceiling for the past thirty minutes. If it weren't for the fact that Mitchell and Claire are siblings, she would probably confide in Phil. But this is a Pritchett Problem, a problem that can only be solved by a Pritchett. 

Claire glances at Phil, thinking of how easy the Dunphys must have it. What problem could a Dunphy man possibly have? Maybe Phil argues with his Dad about trampolines. Or something equally harmless. 

Claire’s jealousy is short-lived, because it is in that moment that she remembers her last name.  _ Dunphy.  _ She is Claire Dunphy, officially and forever. 

Still smiling at that small but inspiring realization, Claire shakes Phil’s shoulder. 

He rolls over. His eyes open. 

“I know it’s 5am, and I don't mean to spring this on you, but…” 

Claire is rapidly losing momentum. Suddenly, the Dunphy realization means less than it did a minute ago. She feels guilty unloading all of this stress on her husband. Stress that, if properly analyzed, would probably amount to nothing but neediness and adult onset separation anxiety. 

“You can tell me,” Phil says, his voice low and comforting. 

Claire sighs, accepting her fate. If the sentence goes unfinished, she’ll never hear the end of it. Phil is insanely persistent. Lying is an option, but Claire knows from experience that lies have the potential to snowball. First it’s just a white lie about her emotional well-being, then it’s hurtling down that snowy hill, gaining momentum, growing larger and larger, becoming an unstoppable force. Until it inevitably crashes, leaving an avalanche of destruction in its wake. 

“I’m worried about Mitchell.”

“Oh, honey,” Phil says, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You should call him. Or stop by his house, maybe. You could bring cookies. Your cookies are great. Really great. Especially when they’re fresh, but-- cold, too...” 

His sentence slowly tapers off into meaningless sleep babble, growing less and less coherent as his eyes slowly close. 

Claire considers the suggestion. “I could skip the PTA meeting today,” she murmurs, looking up at the ceiling. “He's my brother. I have a right to visit him. I’m not… clingy, or anything.” 

“Cling wrap, good idea.” Phil rolls over again, blankets coming undone. “To preserve the freshness… of the… cookies.” With one last yawn, he deflates, fully asleep. 

***

One heated argument with the school crossing guard later, Claire is driving to Mitchell’s house-- practically speeding. The sooner she gets there, the sooner she can put this to rest. 

She could just turn the car around and forget this ever happened. Lie to Phil, maybe, and pretend that Mitchell is on a business trip or something. It’s tempting. So, so tempting, to dispel all the anxiety in one quick motion, to grip the steering wheel and commit to the U-turn. But she’s a Pritchett, and Pritchetts persevere. It’s in their blood. Claire proceeds to repeat this mantra under her breath ( _ Pritchetts persevere, Pritchetts persevere _ ). Clearing her mind, concentrating solely on those two words. Forcibly blocking out the anxiety, the apprehension, the hesitance.

But it’s difficult, and as Claire’s car approaches the house, it goes from difficult to impossible. Unpleasant thoughts creep into her mind, settling in like unwanted visitors. What if Jay was right all along? Is Claire clingy? Needy? 

She shudders at the very suggestion.  _ Oh _ , to be a true blue Dunphy, arguing about trampolines and magic tricks. 

Claire peels her hands from the steering wheel. They've been stuck there for the past few minutes, sweat acting as a natural adhesive. Buried deep in her heart, Claire finds the remains of her Pritchett courage and puts it to use. Exhaling all the anxiety and distress, she opens the car door and starts walking.

The lawn is looking a little shabby, but generally well taken care of. There is significantly less garden decor, which strikes Claire as unusual, given Cameron’s fondness for ceramic frogs and pigs. She remembers this specifically, because Cameron gifted her a colorful ceramic frog on her birthday. A frog with a fishing hat and line, lazing on a rock, painted with love and care. (“Missouri makes the best garden frogs!” he once said, a country bumpkin if there ever was one.) 

On the doorstep, Claire feels a sharp twinge of reluctance. But before it can get the better of her, she all but pounds the doorbell with a closed fist, planting her feet in place. The sound of muffled footsteps comes as a huge comfort, dismissing Claire’s darker concerns-- he’s alive, at the very least. There’s a brief pause as Mitchell unlocks the door, opening it a crack. But only a crack.

Claire can see Mitchell peering out, nothing visible except his eyes. 

“Open the door,” Claire orders, just as she would when they were only small, taking advantage of her ‘older sister’ privileges. One of which was being able to boss Mitchell around whenever she wanted. 

Mitchell makes a low, frustrated noise. The door inches open, and Claire suddenly understands Mitchell’s insistence on keeping the door mostly shut. He looks a mess. His hair is unkempt, and his usual fashion sense has been abandoned in favor of a wrinkled tee shirt and pants. Unwashed, it seems. What's more alarming are the dark circles under his eyes, so glaringly obvious that Claire wonders if he’s slept in weeks. 

“What happened?” Claire asks, trying to sound less concerned than she actually is. 

Mitchell looks ashamed, shrinking in on himself as he steps back, motioning for Claire to come inside. She complies, and the concern grows tenfold as the severity of the situation slowly dawns on her. 

Blankets are scattered across the couch, along with a dozen throw pillows. A half eaten container of Häagen-Dazs is sitting on the coffee table, spoon sticking upright. On the television, Claire recognizes one of Mitchell’s guilty pleasure movies:  _ The Breakfast Club _ . Currently, Molly Ringwald is arguing with Judd Nelson, their romantic tension rapidly thickening. 

It goes without saying that this is the aftermath of a messy breakup. Rather than rub his back and say all the appropriately sympathetic things, Claire sits on the couch and pulls a blanket over her legs. 

Closing the door, Mitchell glances at his sister, his expression a cross between disbelief and gratitude. He stands there a moment longer. “I bought a lot of Häagen-Dazs. If you want some.”

Claire nods. 

Mitchell disappears into the kitchen, leaving Claire to watch Judd Nelson act his heart out. He returns with a spoon and a small container of ice-cream, eyes glued to the television screen as he places them in Claire’s open hands. Comfortable silence follows. Understanding silence; the kind that feels a thousand times more genuine than “ _ Aw, you deserve better! _ ” 

Eventually, Mitchell breaks the silence. “I used to think I was Molly Ringwald. But now I think I’m Anthony Michael Hall.” 

That brings a ghost of a smile to Claire’s face. “You're Molly Ringwald. One hundred percent,” she assures him, digging into her ice-cream.

“But she ends up with Judd Nelson,” Mitchell says. “And I’m going to end up with nobody. Because I’m neurotic.”

Claire doesn't say anything. Because in the face of severe heartache, words rarely help things. Instead, she wraps an arm around Mitchell and pulls him closer. 

Mitchell rests his head on her shoulder. “He broke up with me,” he says, voice cracking, “and I loved him so much.” 

Claire gently squeezes his arm. “I know.” 

It’s silent again, save for Mitchell’s sniffling and the noise of the television. 

Despite all their differences (and similarities), they’re Pritchetts, and that's all that matters. They sit, watching as the so-called Breakfast Club cry and laugh and dance, sharing in the comfort of an afternoon spent together. 

*******

The house feels lonely and bare without Cameron’s peculiar knickknacks, from chicken herding trophies to ceramic pigs. Once upon a time, Mitchell griped about those knickknacks, thinking that they were tacky. But knowing that someone else, someone other than him, will own them… It hurts. Regret, sadness, anger; they swell in Mitchell’s chest, tearing him up from the inside. Such are the consequences of a messy breakup, he concludes, buying more ice-cream than necessary and shelling out for a digital copy of  _ The Breakfast Club _ . 

Claire’s visit is an unexpected one, but Mitchell is thankful for her nonetheless. They watch the movie together, and shortly after, Claire whips him into shape. If she weren't an experienced mother (and his older sister), Mitchell doubts she could order him around like she does. 

But she  _ is _ , so Mitchell has one last cry and picks himself up again. He cleans the house, takes a cold shower, and puts on a nice outfit. It’s refreshing, like rising up to the sunny surface after sinking deep in the water. Breathing in the air, basking in the sunlight, if only for a short time. 

Because the pain still has a hold on him, and he’ll probably end up under the surface again. Submerged in the water, cold and alone.

But for now, Mitchell is alive. He’s surviving.

It’s only when Mitchell receives a call from the adoption center that he comes close to sinking again. A pleasant-sounding woman reminds him that  _ they _ ’ll-- a term that no longer applies to him --be able to pick up Lily next weekend. 

Time suddenly has meaning again, moving quickly and without concern for Mitchell Pritchett. In fact, Life and Time seem to be working together to catch him off guard, haphazardly dropping a baby in his lap right after subjecting him to the most painful of breakups.

But Mitchell doesn’t back down; Life and Time and all the other forces of the universe can go right ahead. In the wise words of a young and reckless Judd Nelson: the almighty forces of the universe can  _ eat his shorts _ . 

Mitchell is, for the most part, mentally prepared to tackle fatherhood. He’s not without his doubts, of course. Hesitance. Fear. But Mitchell isn’t about to give life the satisfaction, so he wakes up first thing in the morning and falls into the familiar rhythm of his routine, swallowing the fear. He dresses nicely, combing his hair to perfection. Cleans up his beard. Brews some coffee. Prepares a breakfast that’s worthy of a social media post, but doesn't take a photo. Glances at the calendar. 

There's a red circle around the date. A heart scribbled in red pen, courtesy of Cameron. From the days of Mitchell and Cameron, soulmates forever and always. But those days are over, Cameron isn’t ready to raise a child with him-- and Mitchell is mid-chew when he feels tears welling in his eyes. Can he do this alone? The thought terrifies him. 

Mitchell forces himself to swallow what’s left of his toast, washing it down with coffee that’s still too hot. It’s bitter, lingering in his throat. Once breakfast is finally done, Mitchell pulls out his cellphone and looks up his contacts, fingers flying across the screen. 

One long, agonizing  _ beep  _ later, and Claire answers, sounding concerned (but clearly trying to hide it). “Everything OK?”

“Um-- God, this is embarrassing,” Mitchell says, combing a hand through his hair, effectively undoing an hour’s worth of careful styling. His voice wavers slightly. “You’re busy today, right?” 

Claire pauses. “No, I’m not,” she replies. “Alex is taking the day off, so I’m not on extracurricular activities duty. Why?”

“Well,” Mitchell says, looking down at his patterned socks, “I’m picking up Lily today and-- I mean, I was supposed to go with Cameron, but… we’re taking a break, and, I don’t know, I’m just nervous about going alone.” 

“I’ll go with you,” Claire says, agreeing without an ounce of reluctance. 

Relief washes over Mitchell like a tidal wave. Tears are spilling from his eyes. Since  _ when _ was he this emotional? “I cannot thank you enough, Claire,” Mitchell says, dabbing at his face with a napkin.

Claire chuckles. It’s not mean-spirited, it’s just Claire’s way of fighting off her own tears. Mitchell can tell. “Don’t worry about it. Pritchetts persevere.” 

“Yeah,” Mitchell says. “We do.”

***

As it turns out, fatherhood is more difficult than the internet blogs and parenting books make it out to be, and Mitchell finds himself on the receiving end of more than a few surprises. Good surprises, bad surprises, surprises that border on being bad but end up good. One day, Mitchell thinks he’s seen it all.  _ Officially _ . Seen it all. With his own two eyes. And the next day, something entirely new will pop up, and Mitchell is forced to reevaluate. 

All things considered, fatherhood is absolutely fascinating. Watching this little human learn and love and grow, it's a life-changing experience, one that Mitchell cherishes. Sometimes, he’ll snap a photo and try scrapbooking it, but all the stickers and glitter are reminders of him--  _ Cameron  _ \--and it hurts more than it should. So, Mitchell settles for a photo album. The memories speak for themselves.  _ Without _ the help of glitter tape and brightly colored cardstock.

Mitchell is asleep at the kitchen table when his phone rings, waking him up to the tune of Brittany Spears-- which Mitchell should replace with something more professional, but  _ alas _ . Scrambling to his feet, Mitchell frantically pats himself down, searching for his phone. It could be work. (Or Cameron.) Or someone in the family. 

His phone is wedged between the couch cushions. Mitchell carefully shimmies between the coffee table and the stroller, reaching down at the most awkward of angles to avoid knocking over a half empty cup of coffee. It isn't a graceful maneuver by any means, but Mitchell rewards himself points for agility. Effort, too. He manages to answer it before Brittany sings her last note. 

“This is Mitchell.”

“Hey, Mitch,” says Phil. “Question. Do you know how to bake?”

Mitchell pauses, briefly thinking back to his past encounters with baking. No electrical fires, no food poisoning, no complaints. He qualifies, then. “Uh, sort of? I mean, I know the basics.”

“Great! OK, uh--” There’s a muffled noise on Phil’s end. “Well, Claire needs cupcakes for… a get-together, I think. And unfortunately, I’m not as adept of a baker as I am a magician, and I could use some help.” 

Mitchell glances at Lily’s crib, where she’s slumbering peacefully. “I don't know, Phil. I want to help, but I’d need somebody capable enough to watch Lily, and…” 

“Oh! That’s not a problem,” Phil says. “Gloria’s here, helping out with the decorations. She can watch her.”

“Well,” Mitchell says, not entirely sold on the idea, “if you really need help, OK. I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“Alright, thanks!” 

***

Mitchell arrives a little later than expected, mainly due to baby carriage difficulties. (The baby carriage got stuck in the car, which delayed Mitchell significantly, but there was  _ also _ the leftover cup of coffee that he felt compelled to wash and put away.)

He climbs the steps, hefting Lily’s carriage with a gentle sway. 

Gloria ushers them inside. “Ay, I haven’t seen Lily in so long!” she exclaims, leading Mitchell to the kitchen. It’s adjoined to the living room, so he can see every inch of their work-in-progress party. 

Streamers are dangling from each corner, strung up to meet in the middle. Balloons float in clusters, tied in place. Everything follows a mint green and gold theme. Mitchell personally adores these colors. (But Pepper the party planner would probably turn his nose up at him for saying as much.)

Phil shows up, looking… unreasonably messy. Just about every ingredient in the recipe book is on his shirt, from flour to egg yolk. Frosting is in his hair, on his face, and even on his shoes. (Mitchell can’t imagine how that happened.) There's a splotch of bright red on his neck… which, upon further inspection, looks a lot like blood. But, knowing Phil, there’s probably an explanation for it. A ridiculous, nonsensical explanation.

Chuckling, Phil wipes his neck with the back of his hand. “Funny story. I tried to make homemade food coloring. Gold food coloring, actually. But I locked myself in the pantry during an intense game of hide and seek. See, Luke was here a minute ago, and he brought some pretty realistic zombie masks--” 

Mitchell holds up a hand. “I’m sure there's a funny story in there somewhere, but we’re on a time crunch.” He places Lily’s carriage on the table.

Gloria swoops in, forgetting all about the decorations. “Look at how cute she is,” she coos, gently lifting Lily into her arms. 

“She cries easily,” Mitchell warns. 

“Don’t worry, Mitch. I’m great with babies,” Gloria says. 

Mitchell looks doubtful.

Sure enough, Lily seems to be enjoying the attention of her grandmother. She squeals happily. Gloria’s smug smile says, ‘ _ I told you so _ ’, to which Mitchell replies with a raise of his brows, saying, ‘ _ Huh. _ ’ They disappear into the living room, Gloria’s voice echoing into the kitchen. 

Feeling a little lonely without Lily, but glad to have some time with another adult, Mitchell turns back to Phil. Against all odds, Phil looks even messier than before. How he managed to get frosting on his eyebrows in the span of a few seconds, Mitchell doesn't know.

“Let’s get to work!” Phil announces.

Soon, they're baking up a storm.  _ Literally _ . Mitchell is considerably neater, but Phil’s bizarre baking techniques make more than enough of a mess for the both of them. He insists on testing out his ‘kitchen inventions’ during the baking process, which is equal parts fun and dangerous-- a combination that’s guaranteed to end in disaster. 

Eventually, the cupcakes find their way into the oven. 

Phil slips off his self-heating oven mitts. (Another invention of his.) “Well, that was crazy.”

Alex pokes her head in from the corridor. She’s still wearing her pajamas. “What happened? I thought I heard Haley screaming.” 

“Don’t worry, honey,” Phil says, waving a hand. “That was us.”

“My apron caught on fire,” Mitchell explains.

“It’s on fire again,” Alex mumbles, leaving for her bedroom. 

Mitchell gasps. His apron is on fire. For the second time today.  _ How _ ?

Phil looks ready to pat down the flames with his self-heating oven mitts, but thinks better of it. (Thank God.) Instead, he douses the apron in the closest thing at hand: a carton of milk. 

“How many cartons of milk is that?” Mitchell asks, referring to the amount of milk wasted in the baking process. 

“Well,” Phil says, mentally calculating, “if we include the one that ended up in the dishwasher-- which I  _ still _ think we can salvage --that’s five.”

Mitchell wipes a smear of frosting from his forehead. “If baking a cake is this much trouble, I’ll probably just order one for Lily’s birthday.” He pauses. “But does that make me a bad dad?” 

Phil leans on the counter. “Listen, I’m pretty new to this dad thing myself,” he starts, “but I know for a fact that Lily will love you no matter what, whether your cake is homemade or baked by Nigella Lawson herself.” 

For a moment, Mitchell is touched… until the last part of Phil’s sentence registers in his brain. “Who is Nigella Lawson?”

“Nigella Lawson, the first cooking show host to release an app complete with audio tutorials,” Phil says, suddenly offended. “TechSmarty rated it 4.5 on the app store! I texted you about it!”

“Oh,  _ that  _ Nigella Lawson,” Mitchell says quickly. “Right. Duh.” (A nice save, if he does say so himself.) 

Phil eyes him suspiciously. But only for a moment. Then his good-natured self returns and the tension disappears into thin air. “Anyway, you’re a great dad. Trust me. It’s about patience, love, and care. Coincidentally, the same three ingredients you need to bake a cupcake.”

“So, in theory,” says Mitchell, “if I can bake a cupcake, I can be a dad.”

“That’s right,” says Phil.

With a renewed sense of confidence, Mitchell checks the oven. 

“Oh my god.” 

Phil tenses. “What?” 

Mitchell squints. “Did you-- Did you put your phone in the oven?” 

“Nigella!” Phil cries, pushing Mitchell aside and flinging the oven open. “I’m coming for you!” 

“Phil! It’s  _ hot _ !” 

Phil heeds Mitchell’s warning. Momentarily. “Right! I’ll need my electric self-heating oven mitts,” he says. 

“Dad, turn off the oven first.” 

It is at that moment that Mitchell and Phil notice that Alex is sitting at the kitchen island. From behind her book, her expression is deadpan.

“Right!” Phil says, flicking the dial. “Thanks, sweetie.”

Alex’s eyes remain fixed on her book. “If you die, who’s going to pay for my tuition?”

“That’s a good attitude!” Phil replies enthusiastically, ducking head-first into the oven. 

Mitchell takes the stool beside Alex, watching as Phil pulls out both the cupcakes and his phone (which looks to be in bad condition). As Phil mourns Nigella, Mitchell inspects the cupcakes. Much to his surprise, they look good. Better than good, in fact. Terrific.

“Is there a link between parenthood and cupcake baking?” Mitchell asks, lifting a cupcake in his palm. 

Alex looks up from her book. Her expression shifts slightly. “Scientifically, I’m sure there's at least one correlation,” she says, adjusting her glasses. “But you don't have to worry, Uncle Mitchell. You’re smart. You’ll be fine.” 

Mitchell smiles. “Thanks, Alex.” 

***

Decorating is arguably the most difficult and most enjoyable step in making proper cupcakes. But Mitchell and Phil are determined to master it.

There’s a noticeable contrast between Phil’s cupcakes and Mitchell’s. Phil takes full advantage of his decoration arsenal, ranging from sprinkles to fondant toppers, and makes the most colorful cupcakes known to man. Little explosions of sprinkles and frosting, each one more eye-catching than the last. 

Meanwhile, Mitchell tries to achieve an understated elegance, with intricate swirls of frosting and careful placement of his toppings. If it weren't for Pepper’s baking parties and cake competitions, Mitchell probably wouldn't have such a good handle on icing. 

Each of their cupcakes are spectacles in their own right, Mitchell concludes, perfecting his third ‘spectacle’. Forcing his hands to be steady, Mitchell adds a thin curl of golden frosting around the edge, imitating a regal pattern.  _ The finishing touch _ . Once it’s done, Mitchell dusts his hands off and glances at Phil’s workstation, curious to see his newest creation. As expected, it looks to contain an absurd amount of sugar, and appears colorful enough to blind someone.

“Who are these cupcakes  _ for _ , anyway?” Mitchell asks, admiring his own handiwork. Each cupcake receives a thorough inspection, in case of smudged icing or a missing sprinkle. 

Phil looks to be caught off guard by the question. His icing hand wobbles. “Well-- um, as far as I know, it’s a get-together. For… uh, Claire’s election.”

“Oh, you should’ve told me,” Mitchell says, clapping his hands together. “I’d be glad to come for moral support. Not that Claire really needs it, she’s doing really well so--”

“Oh, actually, it’s invite-only. But you’re not missing much, it’s just a bunch of campaign managers and politicians. They’re… super boring,” Phil explains, eyes shifting away from Mitchell. He’s panic-blinking. 

So, Phil is lying.  _ Clearly _ . Mitchell’s instincts as a lawyer urge him to be confrontational. Ask the right questions. Find the truth. But unfortunately, this isn’t a court of law, it’s a kitchen, and Mitchell has a feeling that interrogating a relative would not end well. 

Rather than go on the offense, Mitchell calls off his inner lawyer and pretends to fall for it. “Right,” he says, retreating to his side of the counter. 

As if Phil’s transparent attempt at lying wasn't enough, Luke and Manny stroll into the kitchen, mid-argument. They’re wearing gold suits, which  _ coincidentally _ match the theme of Claire’s “super boring election party”. Phil’s misplaced laughter is followed by a rapid series of blinks. 

“We memorized the dance routine for the party, Dad,” Luke says.

Mitchell pretends to examine his shoes.

“That’s-- super great, buddy,” Phil replies, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s going to be a great party. I just hope my date doesn’t cancel,” Manny adds. 

“Great, great, great,” says Phil, (not so) subtly motioning for them to be quiet.

Only one word could be used to describe this entire situation: humiliating. In an effort to escape and rescue but a single shred of his dignity, Mitchell decides that he’s going to pick up Lily and leave. But with timing that rivals even Manny and Luke’s impromptu entrance, Gloria appears with Lily cradled in her arms.

“Mitch, I was wondering if Lily and I could go shopping. I know this place that sells the cutest dresses!” she says. Lily seems to be sharing in Gloria’s excitement, squealing gleefully.

Mitchell opens his mouth to say, ‘ _ No, we have to go. _ ’ But what comes out is entirely different. “Sure. Have fun.” 

“Did you hear that, Lily? I’m going to buy you an adorable little designer dress!” Gloria says, tapping Lily’s nose. 

Suddenly, Mitchell is stranded in the middle of the room, unable to leave and dead set against facing Phil and his dance troupe in-training. He can hear Phil’s conversation with Luke and Manny. As Gloria saunters off, loudly singing Lily’s praises, their voices drop to a whisper. There’s nowhere to flee, and Mitchell feels so out of place that it’s painful. 

Oh, but there  _ is _ the ultimate failsafe: the bathroom. Like a middle-schooler shunned by his classmates at lunch, Mitchell scrambles for the bathroom, making sure to lock the door. He rests his hands on the sink, inhaling the artificial scent of Phil’s massage candles and Haley’s lingering perfume. There is something familiar in the way that he seeks solitude here, in the washroom. It reminds him of childhood, of school, of weeks at camp spent huddled in the nearest stall, hiding from the world. It is a habit that he thought he abandoned. But it’s bleeding into his adult life, proof that he is, and always will be, helpless. 

Mitchell stares into the mirror, his face hot with shame. 

After the break-up, the rumor mill churned out lies galore. A number of the rumors were true, to some degree, but others were outright lies. Mitchell’s friends helped the rumors along, whispering to one another about Cameron’s ‘ _ cheating streak _ ’ or Mitchell’s ‘ _ restraining order _ ’. Until Mitchell and Cameron made the announcement that they were taking a break, their relationship was the most current topic of conversation in their social circle. 

But it grew old, as these things often do, and the rumor mill moved onto someone else-- namely, J’Marcus and Daniel. 

Then, Mitchell and Cameron’s social circle split evenly in two. Their friends picked sides. In the end, Cameron kept most of them. (He always was good with people. Funny. Caring.) Between lapses of depression, Mitchell tried to repair severed ties. But his former friends looked the other way, claiming that he was “too sad” or “not fun” anymore. 

_ It must be true _ . Mitchell turns on the faucet, cold water rushing out.  _ His own family is distancing themselves from his neuroticism _ . Water pools in his palms. He rinses his face.  _ Alone, again.  _ It’s cold, running down his chin in small rivulets. 

There’s a knock at the door. “Hello?”

Mitchell recognizes Claire’s voice. He swallows the words he should say--  _ ‘It’s Mitch, I’ll be out in a minute!’  _ \--and remains perfectly still. Maybe she’ll leave. 

“Hello?” she repeats, clearly losing patience. The doorknob jostles. “Luke? I swear to God, if you're flooding the bathroom again… We’re not getting an alligator, and that's  _ final _ !” 

Calming himself, Mitchell breathes in deeply. He pats his face with a towel and turns the doorknob, watching as Claire’s anger dissolves into mild embarrassment.

“Oh, Mitchell,” she says, hands dropping to her sides. “I thought--”

“I was Luke? Yeah, I noticed. Maybe you should get him a turtle or something,” Mitchell replies.

“I’m not subjecting an innocent turtle to that,” says Claire, shaking her head. 

There’s a brief, uncomfortable pause. 

“Um, could you pass me the nail polish? It’s right there,” Claire says, pointing to the countertop. A small makeup bag filled with bottles of nail polish is sitting beside a half empty box of band-aids. 

Mitchell glances inside and hands it over. “Pretty,” he says, hoping to lessen the awkwardness. 

Claire chuckles, tossing the bag from one hand to the other. “You know, I remember you being pretty good with nail polish.”

The corner of Mitchell’s mouth curves upward. 

“I could use a lesson, actually,” she admits. 

***

That is how Mitchell finds himself sitting on Haley’s bed, listening to his niece talk about the latest scandal at school as Claire paints his nails. They’re propped up on pillows, gossiping like teenagers. One of Haley’s favorite pop bands is playing on her phone. 

Turns out, Mitchell remembers a thing or two from his nail polish phase. Painting Claire’s nails was simple-- they’re a shade of reflective turquoise now, glimmering in the light like mermaid scales. 

It’s Claire’s turn now. Every few minutes, she’ll stick out her tongue in concentration, staring at Mitchell’s nails with unparalleled intensity. Her strokes are a little shaky, and there’s some leftover polish on the edges of Mitchell’s fingers, but it’s turning out nicely so far. 

With Haley’s guidance as an all-knowing collector/hoarder of nail polish, Mitchell decided on a shimmery shade of violet. And Haley was right. It looks gorgeous. 

“When Dylan broke up with me, Rebecca Taylor totally hooked up with him,” Haley says, adding a final coat to her nails. She dips the brush a few times. “Even though I  _ said _ he was off-limits. But, like, she’s a bitch. I don't know what I was expecting.” 

Mitchell clicks his tongue. “That’s  _ Rebecca _ for you.”

“I’ve met Rebecca’s mom, and I can tell you one thing for sure: the apple does not fall far from the tree,” says Claire, shaking her head. “She tried to seduce Megan’s new step-dad.”

“The hunky firefighter?” asks Mitchell, eyes widening.

“Yes,” Claire confirms. “She’s shameless.”

Haley snorts. “Let’s be real, though. I’d probably try and seduce him too. Those firefighters are hotter than the fires they put out.”

“Got that right,” says Mitchell.

Claire quickly turns her head toward the door, checking for Phil. The coast is clear, evidently, because she says, “They are ridiculously hot.”

In the middle of their chorus, Maroon Five is cut off by Haley’s ringtone. Fanning one hand, Haley picks up her phone and gasps. “Oh my God, it’s Lindsay! I thought she was  _ dead _ !” Upon answering, both Haley and her girlfriend squeal in unison, temporarily rendering Mitchell and Claire deaf. “Linds! Tell me everything! Oh, wait--” She cups her phone and mouths, ‘ _ I gotta take this _ ,’ slipping out of the room like a businesswoman with places to be. 

In that moment, Mitchell feels like one of Haley’s less popular high-school friends, forgotten in an instant. It doesn’t last long, though, because… He’s a full-grown man. High-school is a distant memory. (Thank  _ God _ ). He exchanges a look with Claire, pointedly rolling his eyes.

“She ditched us!” Claire exclaims, throwing both hands in the air. 

Playing along, Mitchell pretends to gasp. “Right before the big prom!”

“And she stole our dates!”

“Not Logan McArthur, the hottest guy at school!”

“Anyone but Logan!” 

There's a pause. Mitchell and Claire stare at each other knowingly, holding back smiles. Their staring contest ends with each of them laughing out loud, collapsing onto the floor as though  _ Logan McArthur _ is the height of comedy. (And maybe, in that moment, it is.) 

It takes a minute or so, but eventually, they run out of laughter. The laughter is replaced with an agreeable silence. Mitchell leans on the side of Haley’s bed, looking down at his nails thoughtfully. 

Claire is at his side, staring at the many photographs that line Haley and Alex’s shared wall. Awards and certificates are Alex’s contribution. Haley’s fashion magazine clippings and photographs of friends are pinned up alongside them. The photos and diplomas mingle together; a perfect mix of Haley and Alex.

But Mitchell isn’t paying attention to any of that. Memories of that afternoon jump to mind unexpectedly, draining him of his enthusiasm. He looks sideways at Claire, wondering if this was all out of pity. 

“Claire,” Mitchell begins, summoning all of his emotional strength, “I want you to be completely honest with me. Am I a killjoy? Am I too depressing to have around?” 

Claire remains silent. 

Fearing the worst, Mitchell closes his eyes, braces himself for the truth. Whatever hellstorm of brutal honesty Claire is about to unleash, Mitchell needs to mentally prepare beforehand. 

“And exactly what brought you to this conclusion?” Claire asks calmly. 

“Um,” Mitchell says, “it looked like Phil was throwing a party. With the whole family. Then, he told me I wasn't invited. So, I sort of assumed that you excluded me because I’m… depressing.”

Claire takes a deep breath. “I am going to kill Phil with my bare hands.”

Mitchell is, in a word, confused. “ _ What _ ?” 

“Let me ask you one question. Do you know whose birthday it is today?”

Calendars were Mitchell’s first love. Unfortunately, being a father/lawyer does not allow much time for keeping track of the days. As of late, Mitchell’s life has been a daze of early mornings and caring for Lily. Remembering all of Lily’s little achievements and his boss’s  _ not so  _ little demands is tiring. His brain is being tested every hour of every day. Birthdays are not on his list of priorities. 

But regardless of Mitchell’s personal life, family  _ should _ be on that list of priorities. Don’t they matter the most? The guilt sets in. Mitchell sighs. “No. I don't.”

Claire laughs, mostly out of disbelief. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Mitchell confesses. “I’m so sorry, it’s just that life has been hectic. And I know that's no excuse for neglecting family, but--” 

Claire is smiling. Is that a good sign? Mitchell can never be sure. 

“Mitchell. It’s your birthday.”

Oh. 

“ _ Oh _ ,” says Mitchell. 

_ Oh _ is right.

***

“Happy birthday, Uncle Mitchell!” 

Surrounded by family, Mitchell is seated at the head of the table. Phil presents him with the cupcake of all cupcakes: a towering mound of chocolate and sprinkles, so imbalanced that it's swaying. In the center, a lit candle waits patiently. Before blowing it out, Mitchell looks to his family, feeling more grateful than they could ever imagine. 

With one puff, the flame vanishes. 

Everyone cheers.

Luke digs into his cupcake, in spite of Manny’s protests. (‘ _ You’ll get frosting all over your lapel! _ ’) 

Gloria bounces Lily in her lap. Jay sits beside her, looking on with a small smile. 

Claire playfully knocks Phil’s shoulder. He rubs his arm. They’ve been hopelessly in love ever since the day they met. No matter how many surprise parties Phil manages to spoil, Claire will keep on loving him. 

Haley and Alex are bickering about something unrelated. But because they’re sisters, they end up calling a truce and trading cupcakes. (Haley loves vanilla; Alex prefers chocolate. One of many little quirks that make them who they are.)

And then there's Mitchell. In this family of interconnected families, Mitchell is an uncle. Mitchell is a son. Mitchell is a father.

Across the table, Lily is playing peek-a-boo with Gloria, babbling happily. Mitchell feels his heart swell with love. He hopes that he’ll be able to teach Lily the importance of family. How family will stand by you, even in the darkest of times. 

Maybe that’s a lesson she has to learn for herself. It was for him. 

***

“No, no. Cyan is  _ not _ turquoise!” 

“But they're basically the same thing.” 

As the party wears on, Mitchell finds himself in the middle of an intense debate. The subject of said debate? The difference between cyan and turquoise. Two  _ very _ different shades of blue. Both Alex and Manny can vouch for this, each of them putting up their own arguments. 

Manny, an experienced suit collector, points out the differences between his cyan and turquoise handkerchiefs. 

Alex refers to their differing hexadecimal color codes as proof. 

Claire, Luke and Jay remain unconvinced. For unknown reasons.

“Name one difference,” Jay says.

“One is cyan, and one is turquoise,” Alex replies, her tone unchanging. 

Before Mitchell can offer his own scathing rebuttal, his phone alerts him of a missed text. He looks down at the screen. 

_ One missed message from Cameron _

**Author's Note:**

> oh man!!! that's a lot of words
> 
> no. it's only 7000. but it's a lot for me :)
> 
> so, i don't really know what gave me the idea for this fic? other than 2x17 and like. how much i wanna write abt mitch. but not cam yanno
> 
> disclaimer. i am not a cam anti! he's funny and sometimes mitch/cam can b pretty sweet. but i don't have the energy. to write abt him. 
> 
> anyway! 
> 
> kudos/comments make me happy! send me prompts and b my friend on tumblr: @apoltergeist


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